Why aren’t there more poems about the Sun?

You glow as if you have drunk from the curve of the moon, your lips cupping its crater-ridden surface. As if surrounded by a thousand glittering fireflies as they brush you in their own personal fire. So you glow. On your back, you carry a mountain of gems. Encased in stars, enveloped in galaxies, encaptured by the Milky Way. You walk a million years across this universe, this reality which can never touch your skin. It is if you are made of lava, of burning rock and death. I mean that in the lightest way I can. You are bolder than Saturn, lighter than Pluto, hotter than Mars, livelier than Jupiter, and lovelier than Venus.